My attention was again directed to Farrell, who was "setting" to a pretty, black-eyed girl in the dance, his step having more of the Irish jig in it than of the "chengana," as it called here, a dance in which certain coquettish movements of a handkerchief in the hand play an important part. He was armed with an immense red cotton one which he flourished with far more vigor than grace, and, as the dance ended, he obeyed the figurative order from the first fiddler to "Square the mainyard and let the jibs run down!" by leading his pretty partner up to the bar. "I say, darlin'," said Farrell, "would ye tell me what's yer sweet name, now?" "My name? Juanita," answered the girl. "Whon-eater? an' is that yer name indade; an' sure your lingo is for all the warld like pourin' music out of a jug. Whon-eater--an' what can be sweeter?--I'll take her up and treat her--I will, by the houly St. Pether!" said Farrell, by way of climax; for he was now in his poetical stage of inebriation--in which he would "rhyme you" like a very Touchstone. I turned away to laugh, and soon after left the dance hall with Mr. Bunker. As I passed out of the door I saw Farrell repeating his dose at the bar, and was apprehensive that he would get into trouble, for I knew that with him the transition was short and easy from the poetical mood into the pugilistic. It was even as I feared. When the ship's boat came in, the watch were all on hand but Farrell, and on inquiry I found he was in "durance vile." It seems a Chileno had taken the liberty to address some words to "Whon-eater," which Farrell resented as an undue familiarity. He hadn't, of course, the remotest idea what was said, but he was in the warlike stage then and spoiling for a row. So he struck out from the shoulder, and was at once seized and marched off to the lock-up. He came off about the middle of the forenoon, having been taken before the magistrate and fined for assault. The old man had, of course, paid it and sent him on board. He had found pretty rough quarters, he said, in the lock-up, and had been nearly "_flayed_ alive by the murderin' _flays_." One day's liberty was much like another, and the same old haunts were visited and revisited. We had four days on shore for each watch, and when the starboard watch came off the last time, Burley, the sea-lawyer, was missing, having doubtless deserted. He had been long enough in one ship, I suppose; and, besides, he had lost his prestige among his shipmates, and was looked upon with contempt. We all felt that we could spare him without a pang. To fill the vacancy, a Sandwich Island native called Peter was shipped, a man who had seen considerable service, having steered a boat in two or three ships, and who murdered English tolerably well. We took our anchor in the afternoon with a smart breeze from the southward, and before the sun went down we were once more tossing on the long swells of the broad Pacific.